


native language

by daisyhaechan



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT)-centric, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyhaechan/pseuds/daisyhaechan
Summary: It was the easiest thing Mark had ever done, falling in love with Lee Donghyuck. It was like falling asleep, just slipping off the edge of the world like it was all he’d ever known how to do, drowning blissfully in a sea of golden skin and loud laughter. It was like accidentally stepping off the sandbar at the beach— his feet suddenly in open water, dangling over the depths, and no matter how much he flailed he couldn’t find land again.-aka Mark grows up, and Donghyuck grows with him, and it shouldn't be that complicated.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	native language

The Lees had been living in Toronto for three years when Mark was born, in a house three blocks from the preschool and four from the church. It was 200 square meters, painted blue with white trim. The floorboards dipped in places, the walnut wood warped. Sometimes the water pressure would go way down, and Mr. Lee would go grumbling into the utility room to fiddle with things Mark didn't understand. The stairs creaked. Mark learned which steps to skip.

In the summer, the hammock was set up on the porch and the bushes in the backyard yielded little yellow raspberries, pleasantly sour. In the winter, the snow piled up against the sides of the house and the old-fashioned heater in the living room would glow. In the afternoons, his mom forced his brother, Jinhyung, to drag him to the park.

On Sunday mornings, all of the Lees got into the Volvo and went to church before anyone else arrived, and Mark ran up and down the empty pews in baby-size dress shoes while his dad mumbled his way through speeches he’d prepared and the high school student who accompanied the church choir played warm-up scales on the upright walnut piano. He liked the way his shoes clicked against the stone floors, echoing through the building. He swung his legs during church service, sitting next to his mother and Jinhyung in the front row. He never paid attention to the sermons, but he was never bored in the church. There was always something, or someone, to look at.

When they moved to New York, there were two women living across the hall. They were both in their mid-forties, with matching silver wedding bands on their fingers that Jinhyung eyed strangely.

“I just don’t know why they had to flaunt it. Keep your business to yourself,” his dad said at dinner, frowning at his chicken. A few stray cardboard boxes were still packed, shoved against the wall of the living room, which still lacked furniture. The shipping company was late, had said they would have everything by Monday. There’d been a big fuss about it, but Mark didn't care. His Nintendo DS was somewhere in those boxes. He itched to dig it out.

“We already chose this place,” his mom replied.

“I never said—”

“I’m sure they’re nice.” She gave a meaningful look to Mark, who stared at her blankly.

Mr. Lee paused to chew for a moment, then said, “All I’m saying is, if they invite you to join a softball league, say no for my sake.”

Mrs. Lee swatted her husband’s arm, but laughed anyway, a sound that made Mark look up from his plate in curiosity. His dad seemed pleased with himself that he’d made her laugh. Mark didn't understand what was so funny.

“Why doesn’t Dad like the neighbors?” he asked later that night, while Jinhyung got ready for bed in their shared room.

“They’re lesbians,” he said. “And he didn't say he doesn’t like them.”

“What’s that?” Mark said.

“It’s when two girls like each other.”

Mark was confused as to why his brother’s nose was wrinkled in disgust, but he didn't want him to think he was a stupid kid. “Gross,” he said, giggling.

In grade four, a kid in the grade above him called him gay when he failed to catch a baseball, the ball hitting him in the chest hard and bouncing into the grass. “Am not,” he said, fuming, because now he was old enough to know what it meant. And that was that— set in stone. The bruise on the left side of his ribs lasted for a week. He winced every time he raised his arms above his head.

In the apartment in New York, Mrs. Lee played Korean music from the 90s from the tinny speakers in the kitchen constantly, humming along absentmindedly while she cooked or sat at the counter on her work computer. Even when she was completely fluent in English, which didn't take long (Mrs. Lee had always been a quick learner), she continued to switch between languages mid-sentence unless she was talking to Mark. Jinhyung spoke Korean, too. Mark suspected that sometimes they were talking about him right under his nose, but he wasn’t quite good enough to prove it.

His father and brother played guitar, and his mother was a singer. Stray pieces of sheet music from the Beatles and Nirvana were always found around the house. Jinhyung played in the talent show every year of high school. He didn't want to teach Mark, but eventually did when he kept pestering him relentlessly. His parents were delighted that he’d finally taken an interest in music— they’d forced him to take piano classes as a kid, but he’d hated it. He got a brand new guitar for his birthday.

The singing came along naturally with the instrument. The songs weren’t right without it. He got pretty good for a twelve-year-old, and his mother practically forced him to audition for SM. He hadn’t been expecting to get in— of course he hadn’t expected it, any of it— but he did. After just barely having moved back to Canada, he packed his bags and flew to Korea.

Even if Mark hadn’t understood what his family were saying completely, he learned to follow general meanings. He knew about the same amount of Korean as a two-year-old. It was too late to teach him, Mrs. Lee had reasoned. Besides, what did he need it for? He was born in Canada. He would never have to deal with the pesky accent that had plagued her since they left.

Still, Korean was around his house all the time as a kid, floating through the atmosphere just like everything else that made Canada home. So of course Mark wasn’t completely clueless when he first arrived in Korea— the shape of the syllables was familiar and easy in his mouth, even if the characters were completely illegible to his eyes. But it was hard to keep up, especially when multiple people were speaking at once. Everything got muddled, and his brain shut down.

Mark Lee came to Korea with a good accent and a terrible vocabulary, and he returned to English with the same. If you don’t use something for a while, it gets rusty, especially if you never went past grade six in the American public school system. Neither of them quite fit. It was never enough. He didn't have a native language. Nothing sounded right when it came out, and the language wasn’t the problem.

Mark had always been less out loud.

He’d wanted to be an author when he was little, thinking that maybe if he wrote things down they would make more sense, but he was never any good at it. He loved the way music conveyed feeling, though. When there was music under his words, they fit better. They didn't need to be perfect, because whatever wasn’t quite enough would be filled in with the melody and the beat, like coloring between the lines.

He became a trainee and started focusing all his energy on singing and dancing, and, eventually, rap. When he closed his eyes at night, the dance moves replayed themselves on his eyelids over and over again until he fell asleep. During meals, he stared into space and wrote rap verses in his head, repeating them until he could find a pen to write the lyrics down. None of them were any good, but it was something to do, and they kept getting better. His dancing got better. He stopped stumbling over his Korean, and the minute he did, his rap teachers told him to add a little of his North American accent into his rap.

Somewhere in between these gaps, Mark met Donghyuck.

Persistent, smug smile. Matted black hair. Scrawny legs and baby fat. He was wearing a zip-up hoodie, basketball shorts, and green sneakers when Mark first met him in one of the practice rooms. The lights flickered, the ceiling was too low, the place always smelled like pubescent sweat, and Mark was practicing a new choreography with Jeno, Myunghwan (who insisted everyone call him Dal), and Jaehyun for weekly evaluations.

He bowed awkwardly, then stood at the front of the room, hands in his pockets. There was a spongebob bandaid on his knee. “They said to go in here,” he said. After a moment of silence, he added, “My name is Donghyuck. I’m 12. Please take care of me.”

Jaehyun smiled. “Hi, Donghyuck. I’m Jaehyun.”

Myunghwan scratched the back of his head. “We made the choreography for four…” He trailed off awkwardly.

But Donghyuck managed to squeeze himself in anyway. He was always doing that, fitting himself into nooks and crannies. He would cram himself against Mark’s side and dig his chin into his shoulder and breathe too loudly into his ear as he tried to do homework. Mark kept shrugging him off. He kept coming back. If there was one thing Mark could compliment him on, it was that the kid was persistent.

Myunghwan left. Donghyuck stayed. Moved into Myunghwan’s bed in the same room as Mark, Jeno, Jaemin, and Jisung. Started practicing longer hours, grew a few inches, lost some baby fat.

Mark kept his desk lamp on past midnight, practicing Korean. He went to school all day, practiced for hours, did his homework, and then still had extra classes to do for training. It was late, he was looking at the characters on the paper but not really seeing them, and he didn't realize he was mumbling along until Donghyuck tapped him on the shoulder.

The headphones fell off his ears as Mark jumped, soft hip hop music still coming tinny through the speakers.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Donghyuck said.

Mark sighed. At this point, he was used to Donghyuck’s bickering. He’d grown to have an automatic response to his voice, grating on his nerves. He didn't respond, keeping his gaze stubbornly on his notebook. Maybe if he ignored the problem, it would go away.

“It’s dwae. Not dwae.”

“I know,” Mark said.

“Your teeth go—” Donghyuck made a face. “Dwae.”

“Dwae,” Mark said.

“Dwae,” Donghyuck repeated.

“Dwae.”

“Dwae.”

“That’s what I said!”

Both of them stilled at the sound of the sheets on Jeno’s bed rustling. When it had quieted again, Mark scowled at Donghyuck. “Go away,” he whispered. Donghyuck rolled his eyes and left, his bare feet padding softly against the floorboards.

—

“Stop trying to make your voice deep. It sounds stupid.”

—

“New haircut?”

“Don’t.”

“I didn't say anything. What? I didn't say anything!”

—

“Who ate my pad thai? I was saving that!”

—

The practice room was muggy despite the air conditioning, and Mark could barely keep his eyes open. Everyone else had gone home except Donghyuck, whose eyes were fixed steadfast on his own frame in the mirror. He was repeating the same step over and over. Last evaluation, Chunhee, one of the trainees’ choreographers/overseers/whip crackers, had commented that his dancing was sloppy. The kid didn't seem to want to let that go.

Mark was used to being the last one in the practice room, convincing someone to stay with him so he could keep practicing, as they weren’t allowed to go back to the dorms alone. It was strange for him to be the one kept behind. Something deep in his bones felt that he should be doing something, that he was letting Donghyuck get ahead, that he would fall behind and never debut if he didn't get up and dance with him, but his limbs felt too heavy. He sunk further into the couch, eyes unfocused and staring past Donghyuck and into the opposite mirror at his own face. There was a pimple on his forehead. His fingers itched to mess with it.

The feeling of the couch shifting made Mark startle. He snapped his eyes open, not even having realized that he was falling asleep. Donghyuck was sitting at his side. The couch was small enough that their legs were touching.

“I’m never gonna get it.”

“You will.” Mark wasn’t used to complimenting Donghyuck. His nasally voice was annoying, and he got this smug expression on his face whenever a camera was on him, and he was always invading his personal space. But something about the look on his face made him feel… something. Protective? His guard was down, and if it was strange that he let it show in front of Mark.

Maybe not so strange. It had been a year. They lived together. Mark smuggled him chips from the convenience store during practice. Donghyuck watched over his shoulder as he played Minecraft on his slow computer and advised him when he saw zombies. Mark shoveled the vegetables he didn't want onto Donghyuck’s plate when they got takeout.

There was a long silence. Donghyuck sighed. “Let’s go home.”

Home was 5,000 miles away and across the Pacific Ocean, but Mark didn't bother to correct him. The sleepy weight in his limbs, like inexorable bags of sand, overwhelmed his need to insist on arguing with Donghyuck. “Okay,” he said. They went home.

—

“Move over.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“Move over.”

—

“You sleep talk.”

“Well, you snore.”

“I do not!”

—

“I’m going to get tteokbokki.”

“...Okay.”

“Wanna come?”

—

“You’ve got sauce on your chin. C’mere.”

—

The practice room couch really was a good place to nap after lessons were over. Mark got used to Donghyuck squeezing himself in next to him, sneakers kicked off and socked feet tangling in between his legs, too-warm skin that he tolerated despite his groans and protests because maybe— just maybe— he didn't hate Donghyuck. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked him, though.

—

It was late, again, but Mark wasn’t tired. He was laying in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He was vaguely aware of Donghyuck’s sheets rustling across the room, but mostly his head was full of debut debut I’m going to—

“You excited?” Donghyuck whispered.

Mark didn't blink. “Nervous.”

“And excited?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

The air conditioner stopped whirring, and the room was suddenly very quiet. Mark’s ears rang in the silence. Donghyuck didn't say anything, and Mark suddenly thought of how he must be feeling. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ll debut soon, too.”

“Oh, I know. I’m gonna be famous,” Donghyuck said, casually, like it was inevitable. Like it was only natural.

Mark laughed, unsure of how else to respond, and turned his head to look at Donghyuck. He was smiling proudly, eyes flashing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t get too comfortable, cause I’m coming for you.”

And that didn't seem like a threat anymore.

NCT 127 was announced not long after, and then NCT Dream, and Donghyuck flashed Mark a conspiratory smile from across the table. Told you so, he mouthed. He seemed so confident while the manager was announcing the concept and the title track and the packed schedule for the coming months, but he climbed into Mark’s bed that night, silently lifting the covers.

Mark was startled. They’d napped on the practice room couch, but Donghyuck had never invited himself onto Mark’s bed. But Donghyuck didn't say anything, so Mark cautiously scooched over against the wall to make room, watching him for clues.

Donghyuck stayed silent, so Mark said, “You’ll do great.”

“I know,” Donghyuck replied, but his breathing was shaky.

Mark frowned. “No, really. You’ve been training for forever. You’re a great dancer and a great singer. People will love you.”

“You always know what to say,” Donghyuck murmured.

“What?” Mark said, incredulous.

His friend blinked blearily at him. “You’re good with words. I don’t know how to… do that.”

Mark was shocked. He was terrible with words. Everything came out not-quite-right, falling just short of whatever he wanted to say. He constructed The Creation of Adam in his head and it came out like a kindergartener’s finger painting pinned by magnets to the fridge.

“I’m not,” was all he could say.

Donghyuck smiled, eyes closed. “You just think that cause you know what you want to say and it doesn’t turn out right, but it’s not about that, it’s… You pay attention. Trust me.”

Mark was getting ready to refute this, but Donghyuck’s mouth had fallen open and his breath had gotten heavy, chest rising and falling in a deep rhythm. The slight frown his eyebrows had been making was softened by sleep, and his face was smooth and peaceful. He looked like a kid. He was a kid. Mark was, too.

He didn't want to wake him up, but he knew he couldn’t sleep like this, so he waited a few minutes, completely still, like a cat had settled on his lap and he was afraid to reach for the remote. Once he thought Donghyuck was fully asleep, he slowly slid off the bed, climbing over his legs, and got into Donghyuck’s bed. The sheets were still warm.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all liked it! I already have some scenes written for the next chapter(s), so look out for that.


End file.
